


We Ran as if to Meet the Moon

by xblessthefall



Series: The Guardian 'Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF!Stiles, College AU, Competent Alpha Derek Hale, Families of Choice, Gen, Like Glacial Slow, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Pack Dynamics, Pre-relationship Sterek, Slow Burn, Spot the Supernatural References, cop!Stiles, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xblessthefall/pseuds/xblessthefall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College doesn’t exactly go like Stiles had envisioned. For one, he’s sixteen when he starts taking classes at the University of Michigan. For another, he’s in <i>Michigan</i>. Instead of taking on an internship, he polices vigilante hunters and rogue supernatural creatures in his free time. When he lands himself in the emergency room, it’s not even for alcohol poisoning, but because some goblin decided to use Stiles’ entrails for decoration. He doesn’t do a stint in county for indecent exposure on sorority row either, but he does wind up with a bounty on his head by the time he’s 25. </p><p>It’s not exactly the experience you’d find advertised in a brochure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to my beta pack: tiedtothemast, thewolfthatwrites, theLoverlyLoon, awkwardturtle. They're my cheerleaders, my editors, my sounding boards, and my support team, and they all deserve love and cookies for sifting through these monstrous chapters.
> 
> Title from _Going for Water_ by Robert Frost.

Part One

After losing his dad, Stiles can’t be bothered to waste time by going back to high school.

So he doesn’t.

It takes a lot of arguing with his aunt and even more paperwork, but he manages to test out of his final two years of post-secondary education. As per the negotiated terms with his aunt, he enrolls at the University of Michigan the following fall. In exchange for allowing Stiles to skip out on the rest of the ‘high school experience’ and jump right into college courses, she’d made Stiles pick an in-state university to attend. The money from his dad’s life insurance policy ensures that tuition is never a concern, and even allows him to get a dorm on campus. Of course, he has to promise to spend most of his weekends back in East Lansing with his aunt and her husband before she’ll sign _that_ paperwork, but it’s an easy promise to make.Likely because it’s one that Stiles never intends to keep.

It’s a little weird being the youngest in most of his classes, but Stiles doesn’t let himself care much. He and his roommate get along well enough, and he makes up for being the youngest in the classes by earning his salt and clawing his way to the top of his classes. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to create a few enemies—who knew Criminal Justice was such a competitive major?—but he doesn’t let that bother him either.

Stiles has plenty of enemies. A few more won‘t hurt him much.

He stays in touch with Scott as much as he can. Of course, it’s a little hard to find common ground since Stiles has conveniently forgotten to mention that his new school isn’t actually East Lansing High, and since Stiles is so unwilling to talk about what’s going on in his own life, he leaves it up to Scott to fill most of the awkward silences. It’s more than a little odd since, y’know, that was once Stiles’ job, but things change. _Stiles_ has changed.

Scott is changing.

Stiles sees it in his best friend’s face every time they Skype. Scott doesn’t smile all that much anymore, and his eyes have become dark and thoughtful in the months since Stiles left Beacon Hills. He doesn’t even talk about Allison all that much--which really should concern Stiles a lot more than it does. He convinces himself that the reason for the lack of Allison-babble is because Scott doesn’t want to seem too happy with Stiles gone, which would be both thoughtful and completely stupid of Scott. And totally out of character, if Stiles is honest.

Stiles doesn’t waste a lot of time being honest with himself these days.

From what Scott’s told him, Beacon Hills has inevitably moved on without the Stilinskis. Some useless douchebag was quickly appointed the new Sheriff, and what remains of Stiles’ childhood home is scheduled for demolition sometime in the next month. Scott has finally settled into his place as part of Derek’s pack. In fact, he seems a few weeks shy of buying himself and the alpha matching friendship bracelets, but Stiles is man enough to admit that last part is mainly the result of a little bitterness on his part.

He tries not to be jealous, he does. He just gets lonely sometimes.

On the flip-side, it seems that some genuine good has managed to come from the new status quo. Shortly after Mark Stilinski’s funeral, Chris Argent all but escorted Gerard and his minions right out of town. Apparently two fires that destroyed the lives of innocents had been the man’s limit, and Chris hasn’t caused the pack any trouble since booting his dad out of Beacon Hills.

Victoria hasn’t been seen since the night of the rave, Scott tells Stiles. The general consensus around town is that she left with Gerard, but Derek believes she was either killed by the bite or one of the hunters. Personally, Stiles thinks he may not be wrong in thinking that Victoria had taken matters into her own hands, but he keeps that to himself.

Erica and Isaac have been pretty adamant that he keep in touch with them as well, and so Stiles does his best to talk to them at least once a week. Shockingly, he gets emails from Lydia and Allison every now and then, and once Jackson even messaged Stiles on Facebook (apparently he was actually really sorry about the whole paralysis and _forcing Stiles to watch a man be crushed to death by his own car_ thing). Boyd’s communication is generally sent through someone else—a greeting relayed during a Skype session with Isaac and Erica, a question passed on through Scott. Boyd was never much of a talker, and Stiles appreciates the sentiment all the same.

The only person that Stiles hasn’t heard a peep from since leaving is the pack leader himself. He actually anticipated the radio silence from Derek, and so he can’t bring himself to care that his assumptions have been accurate. Derek hasn’t really ever given any indication that he’s done more than tolerate Stiles, anyways.

Stiles manages to weasel out of going back to Beacon Hills for Christmas that year. He uses every excuse in the book—homework, staying with his aunt and uncle, the cost of travel. None of them work on Scott, and so Stiles is forced to pull out his secret weapon. He feels awful about it later, but that’s probably because at the root of everything, his final excuse is a little too close to the truth.

He can’t go back to Beacon Hills for his first Christmas without his dad.

Scott instantly backpedals and apologizes for pushing Stiles, which doesn’t exactly make Stiles feel any better about pulling the dad card on his friend, but once they hang up Stiles can’t help but feel relieved that he can play this avoidance game a little bit longer.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see everyone back home. It’s _not_. Fuck, some days Stiles misses Scott so much that it feels like he’s lost a _limb_. But going back to Beacon Hills means facing demons that Stiles has done his damned best to outrun. It means staying at the McCall’s house since his childhood home has been reduced to an empty plot of land, means actively avoiding the Sheriff’s station so that Stiles won’t catch himself looking for his dad’s cruiser parked out front. It means dealing with awkward silences and sympathetic gazes from his friends, or condolences and well-intended prying from everyone else. Compared to all of that, Michigan has become a sort of safe haven for Stiles, and well-- he’s really fucking reluctant to leave it.

He spends that Christmas in his nearly abandoned dorm, working on a fifteen page paper for his Intro to Criminal Justice class. His aunt and uncle guilt him into swinging by their house for presents and Christmas dinner, but Stiles is in and out within three hours. He even gets a new Macbook for his troubles.

All things considered, his first Christmas alone could have been worse.

He doesn’t go home for Spring Break either. Then, when summer swings around, Stiles pays the extra to keep his dorm room through the summer holidays so that he can knock out a few more classes over the break. When he tells Scott that he’s staying in Michigan to help his uncle out around his auto shop, Scott sees right through the lie. It’s a sort of terrifying thought, but Stiles thinks that Scott might have actually read the lie in his heartbeat-- even over the phone line.

After all, Scott and Derek have been cracking down on Scott’s auditory sense training.

The rest of the summer passes in a round of static silence. Stiles gets the cold shoulder from everyone in the pack-- they’re all apparently pissed that he chose not to come back for the summer holidays. It probably doesn’t help when he doesn’t swing by before classes start up, either. Rather than let the silent treatment get him down, Stiles doubles up his course load for the fall semester and gets a part-time job at the university library. He loses himself in work and classes.

Eventually Scott begins talking to him again, but their conversations don’t feel easy until the end of the Fall semester. Erica and Isaac take a little longer. Allison and Boyd grow a little more distant, and Lydia and Jackson stop bothering to keep in touch altogether. Derek never tries. None of it’s exactly incentive for Stiles to jump on a plane and face the psychological trauma of paying a visit to California, so he bows out of visiting over Christmas for the second time in as many years.

Naturally, things go sideways all over again.

It’s becoming easier for Stiles to forget about his life in Beacon Hills. Somehow or another, he’s actually made friends at UM. Now that he’s a sophomore fewer people notice that he’s a couple of years younger than his peers, and Stiles’ loud mouth and quick tongue have earned him a few friends in most of his classes. Some of his professors hate him, others love him, and Stiles’ CJ Policy and Administration professor actually went so far as to let Stiles teach the class one day. Stiles is fairly certain that he wasn’t _supposed_ to jump at the opportunity, but hey, the guy was as interesting as drying paint and Stiles might have taken too much Adderall that morning.

He sticks around for summer classes that year too. By now, Scott’s given up on trying to convince Stiles to come visit everyone back home and things are finally settling between them. More or less. Scott doesn’t talk about the pack as much as he used to, but Stiles doesn’t mention that he’s about to enter his junior year at UM either. Not even when Scott starts talking about taking classes at the community college half a mile out from Beacon Hills.

Stiles is halfway through the fall semester of his junior year when he runs into Danny.

Stiles is working at the university library again to help his aunt and uncle keep the Jeep’s gas tank full. Brianna suckered him into swapping her for the graveyard shift on a Saturday night, and he’s so busy working on the forty-page paper for his Moral and Political Dilemmas class that he doesn’t notice Danny until the dude’s dropping a stack of books on the checkout desk.

Stiles blinks owlishly as he glances up from where he’s gnawing on the cap of his pen, and his jaw drops unattractively when he recognizes the guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk.

Danny quirks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed as ever, before digging through his book bag for his student ID.

Stiles shakes himself from his stupor and accepts the ID card from Danny, scanning it on auto-pilot before handing the card back to his old classmate. He’s still trying to find something to actually _say_ when the other boy beats him to the punch.

“So-- how’s the werewolf scene in Ann Arbor?” Danny asks casually, pushing his stack of books across the counter to Stiles.

Of course Stiles had chosen that moment to pick up the first of Danny’s books to scan, so when he drops the text in complete _shock_ , it hits the counter with the sound of a friggin’ gunshot.

He scrambles to grab the book before it can tumble off of the counter and onto his foot, casting a guilty glance around the library at the patrons shooting him the stink-eye for the disruption. Absently, he scrubs a hand over his hair-- yeah, he _has_ hair now-- before forcing himself through the familiar motions of checking out Danny’s books. By the time he’s finished with that, it seems that most of the patrons have returned to their respective studies, so Stiles unceremoniously grabs Danny by the collar of his stupid polo shirt and drags him towards the back of the stacks to force an explanation out of him.

Danny just allows himself to be guided towards the back, smirking in amusement.

It turns out that Danny was never as oblivious as everyone liked to pretend he was. Once the kanima drama with Jackson began, he apparently really started piecing together the supernatural clusterfuck of a puzzle that was Beacon Hills, but Danny claimed to have known something other than steroids was responsible for all of the changes Scott went through during their sophomore year. Like Stiles, Danny had done his research and figured things out for himself some time during his junior year at Beacon Hills High School.

However, unlike Stiles, Danny had made the smart move and kept his mouth shut. He feigned ignorance to all of the crazy shit that went down in Beacon Hills, and as soon as he could pack his bags for college, he left the town without a backwards glance.

When Stiles finally gets off work that night, it’s nearing two in the morning.

He and Danny make their way to one of the many 24-hour coffee shops on campus, load up on caffeine, and spend the next three hours talking about werewolves, kanimas, and hunters. Stiles is surprised by how much Danny has figured out on his own, but after hearing some of the shit that’s gone down since Stiles left town, he realizes that he really shouldn’t be. It seems the pack’s not doing the best of job keeping a low profile.

Eventually the conversation takes a much-dreaded turn when Danny asks point-blank about the fire that killed Stiles’ dad.

It physically pains him, but Stiles finds himself telling Danny _everything_. It’s as if he’s been holding his breath for the past three years and finally can come up for air, and the words just come tumbling out. He tells Danny about costing his dad his job because of his attempt to trap Jackson during the kanima-craze; he tells him about his dad looking up his browser history and about Derek and his pack showing up bleeding all over his living room floor, dying of wolfsbane poisoning, and tells him about the resulting tell-all that went down between Derek and his dad while Stiles was passed out. He tells Danny about his chess match with Gerard and about the young omega they were supposed to turn away, and he tells Danny every detail of the fire that’s burned itself into Stiles’ memory as much as it burned the life right out of his dad.

Stiles doesn’t cry. The past two years of not allowing himself the luxury have apparently paid off, because he manages to get through the entire story without a single sniffle. Danny, on the other hand, looks like he’s doing his best not to cry _for_ Stiles, and maybe it’s the fact that Danny _doesn’t_ that cements the friendship that builds between them in the years to come.

True to form, it turns out that Danny took most of his intro-level college classes while he was in high school, and so he’s actually only a semester or two behind Stiles in his coursework. He’s a Computer Sciences major with a focus on Security and Software Development—and the irony isn’t lost on Stiles one bit. But hey, if Stiles can take on a CJ major with a juvi record like his, then he’s got no room to be passing judgment.

They spend most of that semester studying in each others’ dorms, or Danny hangs out at the library while Stiles is working. In fact, they’re sort of inseparable. He and Danny go to the same parties, hang out with the same group of friends, and by the time the spring semester rolls around, Stiles is pretty sure that most of the kids at UM think they’re dating.

Of course, he and Danny feed the rumors with every chance they get. Stiles is surprised by how much Danny’s loosened up since their time together in Beacon Hills, but he’s not exactly disappointed by the change. Danny becomes his partner in crime (it’s a figure of speech-- they‘re reformed, okay?) in no time, and when they catch wind of their alleged dating scandal, Danny surprises Stiles by adding fuel to the rumor mill fire. At parties, he keeps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder or waist and pretends to flirt—until a cute guy comes along that Danny _actually_ wants to bone, because then Danny stages a fake-fight so he has an excuse to go hit up his flavor of the night—and one time-that-must-not-be-named, Stiles and Danny wind up drunkenly making out on some sorority girl’s sofa during a particularly wild rager.

Still, despite the word on the streets of Ann Arbor, Danny and Stiles are never _actually_ dumb enough to try dating each other.

They do switch around rooming assignments so they share a double at the start of Spring term, though.

Surprisingly, Danny doesn’t go back to Beacon Hills for the summer either. Apparently his family moved up to northern Michigan themselves, and Danny chooses to stay in the dorms with Stiles while they both load up on summer classes. Stiles still works at the campus library three days a week, and Danny takes on a summer job at his dad’s office doing something tech-y. He’s a little sketchy on the details.

In any case, it’s probably the best summer that Stiles has had since he left Beacon Hills.

Then one night Stiles returns to his dorm after a late night working at the library, and he’s mildly taken aback to find Danny hunched over Stiles’ beat up laptop. The other boy’s brow is pulled into a deep frown and his eyes are sharp with concentration as he studies whatever the hell Danny’s got pulled up on the laptop’s screen. It makes Stiles’ gut curl tightly with unease.

“I’m not even going to bother asking how you hacked that thing,” he says offhandedly, throwing his backpack onto his bed without turning from Danny. “Seeing as, hello, convicted hacker—so instead, I’m going to jump straight to the part where I ask _why the hell are you on my computer_?”

Danny doesn’t even look up from whatever has his attention on the screen. Stiles tries not to swallow too obviously.

“Danny. Seriously, dude,” he’s doing a shit job of hiding the unease that was seeping into his voice. Stiles makes quick work of crossing over to Danny’s bed to snatch his computer out of the other boy’s grasp, but Danny has always been quicker. He simply shifts the laptop away at the last instant and bats at Stiles’ grabbing hands absently.

Stiles’ stomach drops.

“Give me my laptop, Danny,” he grits out. His voice is too hard to play the moment off as anything but heavy now, and when his tone doesn’t surprise Danny in the least, Stiles’ suspicions about what Danny has found are confirmed. Especially when Danny finally looks at him, his brow furrowed tight, and spins the laptop screen around for Stiles’ scrutiny.

“What the hell is all of this, Stiles?” Danny demands lowly. His voice is little more than a hiss, and judging by the way he keeps glancing between their dorm window and door as if expecting to see someone ( _something_ ) looking back at him, Stiles is sure that Danny already has a pretty good idea of what he’s stumbled across.

Stiles reluctantly glances at the screen of his computer, already knowing what he’ll see. He keeps his expression carefully blanked as he shifts his gaze back to meet Danny’s. “It’s none of your business,” he replies levelly.

He’s surprised at Danny’s instant outrage at that response.

“Not my— _Stiles_ ,” Danny shoves to his feet and gestures sharply at the laptop, at the diagrams and lists and maps he’s got pulled up on the Macbook. “You’ve got compiled lists of hunters and data on at least seven different packs—“

“Nine.” Stiles corrects automatically, his voice flat.

Danny looks at him as if he’s lost the last of his marbles. Frankly, Stiles figured that he’d lost them a long time ago.

Danny searches Stiles’ expression helplessly.

Stiles clears his throat and lifts his chin a bit. “I’m working out a system. A tracking system, I guess,” he amends, glancing uneasily at the information displayed on his laptop screen. His fingers itch to reach out and snap the computer closed. He feels too exposed like this, like all of his secrets are on display on that fifteen inch screen. Then again, they pretty much _are_. “To keep tabs on any known supernaturals out there. And—and the hunters.”

He stumbles over that last bit, sure that Danny will see the truth hidden in the words as easily as if Stiles had shouted them.

He does.

“You’re trying to track down Gerard.”

Stiles doesn’t deny it.

Danny stares at him for a long moment before he shakes his head and lets his gaze swing back around to scrutinize the files displayed on Stiles’ laptop screen. After a moment, he snorts and shakes his head.

“Well we’re going to need a better method, that’s for sure. If I can work out the kinks on this new program I’ve been working on, then—“

Stiles stares at him in disbelief as Danny begins to rattle on, proposing improvements and critiquing Stiles’ crude attempt at organizing the data he’s wrangled up. There’s not a hint of jest on Danny’s face as he snags the laptop back and begins typing furiously, his words cutting off mid-tangent as he seems to lose himself in whatever hacker-epiphany he’s apparently just had. Stiles can’t really wrap his head around it yet, but-- Danny’s _serious_ about this. He’s actually going to throw out all of those years of feigning ignorance back in Beacon Hills, just like that? Just so he can help Stiles track down Gerard?

He sinks down onto the edge of his bed then, watching as Danny tries to work some sort of hacker magic on his computer.

He wonders when Danny Mahealani will ever stop surprising him.

xxx

It takes Danny four months of coding before he deems his new program ready, and another month and a half of tweaking before he allows Stiles to put it to use.

And it’s ingenious. Somehow Danny has developed a system that utilizes all of the information that Stiles has scraped together over the years—all of the data on known supernatural creatures and packs that Stiles has tracked down, every bit of nit and grit that he’s gathered on the different hunting factions and families. It even integrates the information from the Argent’s bestiary with the new intel. Then, it uses that data to track the movements of anyone or anything they’ve got information on as well as notes any local headlines that might be relevant to their activities. It even has alerts to notify them of suspicious activity based on those headlines or proximity between other listed hunting factions or supernaturals.

Stiles is still working on a clever name for the program. He's seriously considering calling it _Artemis_ \-- Grecian goddess of the hunt, wilderness, wild animals and all that. Admittedly, they just finished covering Greek lore in his Mythology class, but he still thinks it fits.

They take the system out for a test drive over their four day break in mid-October. Danny’s tracked down what they believe to be a new pack forming a few towns over, and Stiles wants to make sure that there isn’t another Peter Hale situation happening in his own backyard. They road trip over to Lansing and meet up with the fledgling pack.

It isn’t until they’re on their way back three days later that Stiles realizes just how stupid they were to stick their noses into another pack’s business. Stiles doesn’t have werewolves at his beck and call anymore, and he certainly doesn’t have a family of hunters waiting in the wings for him to screw up so they can swoop in and save the day (or just burn his house down). Hell, Danny doesn’t even know how to shoot a gun. Even if he did? It wouldn’t matter. Because Stiles doesn’t have any aconite bullets on hand either.

Yeah, he really didn’t think their little outing through too well.

After that, Stiles steps up his game. He figures out how to get his hands on wolfsbane so he can harvest it as he needs it. He gets a lot of shit from the other guys in his dorm for mothering a pot of purple flowers, but that’s college for you. Unfortunately, learning the art of making aconite bullets is _lightyears_ harder than acquiring the stuff. Unless he’s comparing it to teaching Danny how to shoot a gun. In which case—seriously, give Stiles the bullets any day.

The next time they put Danny’s system into use is to put a group of hunters in check. At least this time Danny and Stiles knew that they were in way over their heads going into things. Still, when the jackass with a shotgun tries to blow Danny’s head off for getting between the hunter and a fifteen year old werewolf, Stiles couldn’t have been more proud of himself that he actually managed to shoot the gun right out of the lunatic’s hand. Frankly, it makes him feel like a total badass, especially since he wasn’t sure if that particular stunt would work outside of a Bond movie.

Danny’s not quite as impressed, of course, but he’s too relieved to ream Stiles for taking such a risky shot.

Stiles performs his first exorcism during spring break of his junior year. While the rest of the co-eds from UM are partying it up on the beach, Stiles and Danny are rooting around a _legitimately haunted_ _house_ in search of Jeremiah Wimby’s seriously pissed off ghost.

Let the record show that Stiles’ elective Latin courses were both practical and worthwhile. His academic advisor can suck it.

They move out of the dorms and into a two bedroom apartment that summer, but Danny and Stiles only work part-time jobs since their families are helping out with the rent. Neither of them take summer courses, and they devote their free time to hunting. They've hit a groove, and they're actually proving to be pretty competent at the whole thing. Their names are even becoming known in the community of the supernaturally inclined and aware.

Of course that's when they get reckless, and everything goes straight to shit.

It's June, and they're following a string of animal killings through Maryland when they stumble across their first rogue alpha-- Peter Hale style. However, unlike Peter, the rogue shifts back into a teenage girl and begs Stiles and Danny to help her. She's outright hysterical and seems unaware of her actions when she shifts, and it's the genuine terror filling her eyes that compels Stiles to help her. She's so much like Scott when he was first bitten, and Stiles was able to pull Scott back from the edge. He's sure that he can do the same for Mallory.

They don't even make it back to Danny and Stiles' hotel before Mallory turns on them.

She only waits until the cover of dusk before she shifts and attacks. She jumps on Stiles from behind-- he's still smaller than Danny, so her instincts must deem him the easier prey-- but before Stiles can even hit the ground, Danny tackles Mallory onto the still sun-warm asphalt. He's unarmed and outmatched, and Mallory's teeth sink into Danny's shoulder seconds before Stiles puts an aconite bullet through her head.

The next week is a blur of fear, panic, anger, and guilt. Danny's terrified of the changes his body is already going through, and though he does his best to put on a front for Stiles' sake, Stiles knows Danny too well to buy the act. Danny's moods are all over the place as the pull of the full moon grows nearer-- one minute he's calm and helping Stiles research for anything that might lead them to a cure, the next he's screaming accusations and damning Stiles for ever letting him get involved. Stiles takes the attacks wordlessly, knowing that he deserves every bit of blame Danny can throw at him. It barely holds a candle to the guilt weighing on his chest.

The night of Danny's first full moon, he makes Stiles lock him up in an underground storm cellar and chain it shut from the outside. The shelter is made to withstand a tornado, but Stiles has serious doubts that it will hold up against a newly turned werewolf. Danny has his own reservations, so he makes Stiles swear to stand guard outside of the cellar with a aconite bullet-loaded gun, just in case Danny does manage to break free.

Stiles agrees without any intention of following through. If Danny were able to break free, Stiles would sooner let Danny maul him than put a bullet in his best friend's head. He's pretty sure that it's selfish as hell for him to think like that, but he's accepted that he's a fairly selfish guy by now.

Danny Mahealani will never stop surprising Stiles.

The night passes without event. Danny never tries to break out of the cellar, and Stiles barely even hears a peep from the guy throughout the entire night. In fact, he's just beginning to worry that something went horribly, awfully wrong with the transformation and that Danny's lying dead on the cellar floor when Danny knocks lightly against the storm door, his muffled voice sounding from the other side. It's barely dawn, but there's enough light for Stiles to actually see the other man's face when he frantically hauls the cellar door open (after fumbling with the chains for a good minute or two), and he's flat out speechless when he's greeted with a tired grin from his friend.

Danny hauls himself out of the cellar, his movements a little more stiff and careful than usual, undoubtedly an aftereffect of the transformation. When he gets his feet steady under himself and manages to straighten up, he claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder and smiles wearily.

“You’re buying breakfast.”

Words are so far beyond Stiles that the only response he manages is to haul Danny to him and crush him in a too-tight hug.

The next several months are a study in adjustment. Danny takes to being a werewolf with disgusting ease. Seriously, Stiles is half-tempted to call Scott up just to gloat about it, but then he remembers that they're still barely talking and abandons the idea as quickly as it arose. There's also the bit where he's doing his best to keep anyone from finding out about Danny's new furry disposition, and even telling Scott seems like too much of an unnecessary risk for Stiles to really consider reaching out to his old friend. Besides, it's not like Danny really needs the help.

For reasons beyond Stiles' comprehension, Danny doesn't seem to need much help adjusting to his new abilities. He masters his transformation within a week of his first full moon, and in the months after that he never once loses control. The moon barely seems to effect him. Sure, he gets a little short-tempered and restless, but Danny doesn't even transform on his third full moon.

Stiles plays around with the idea that maybe, for whatever twisted reason, he's somehow Danny's anchor. He abandons the idea pretty quickly though, because _hello_ , weird. And unlikely as hell. Of all the things that Stiles is sure of in the world (limited though they are), the fact that Danny is _not_ harboring secret love for him is still in his top three.

He researches the hell out of what could be going on with Danny, but it's useless. What little valid information Google can provide on werewolves doesn't touch on _anything_ like what's going on with Danny, and the bestiary isn't any more helpful.

Basically, they wing it.

After four months out of the game, Danny finally has enough of being sidelined and drags Stiles back onto a hunt. The dragging is literal. They warn a shifty hunter away from Detroit, and Danny has a little too much fun getting to exercise his new intimidation tactics on the schmuck. Stiles doesn't hold it against him. It feels too good to see Danny coming into his element, and Stiles finds he missed the thrill of the hunt more than he'd realized.

They do a few more small hunts throughout the semester without much event. Stiles is buried up to his ears in homework and running off ramen and espresso most days, and Danny's glued to his computer so often that Stiles actually has to do a double-take when he spots the other man without his laptop nearby. They're so wrapped up in their school work and hunting that they barely have time to spare a thought to their old lives in Beacon Hills. Danny even loses touch with Jackson.

That's probably why it's such a surprise when Lydia Martin shows up on their doorstep at 2AM on a Thursday night, looking smaller than either boy has ever seen her. Her clothes are rumpled from her flight and her hair's falling out of a sloppy braid, there isn't a spec of makeup on her face, and her eyes are so wide and lost that Stiles feels a thrill of fear run down his spine.

“Lydia?” he breathes, eyes raking over her in bewilderment. “What--”

Her lower lip actually quivers. “Is... Is Jackson here?”

Stiles gapes for a moment longer before he manages to even shake his head, looking to Danny for an explanation. Danny looks just as dumbfounded as Stiles feels, though.

He feels his stomach drop when he turns back to Lydia to find her covering her eyes with her hands, shoulders hunched as if she's trying to curl into herself. She looks so utterly defeated that Stiles doesn't think, he just reaches out and pulls her into a hug.

Lydia doesn't fight the hold and falls into him, fisting her hands in Stiles' shirt and ducking her head against his chest. Danny moves behind her and places a careful hand on the back of her head, looking to Stiles with a concerned frown. Stiles only shrugs one shoulder helplessly, doing his best not to jostle Lydia as she begins to sob in earnest against his chest.

It's the fourth time since third grade that Stiles has seen Lydia Martin cry.

The story gradually unfolds in the following days. Jackson disappeared from Beacon Hills, leaving behind only a letter to Lydia in farewell. He'd claimed he felt like he was suffocating in the Hale pack, and that he was leaving to find his place elsewhere-- and he had to find it alone. Lydia had flown up to Ann Arbor in hopes that Jackson had just followed Danny to Michigan.

When Danny tries to call Jackson to find out where he actually i _s,_ the number has been disconnected. He and Stiles check around with old contacts in Beacon Hills, but no one has seen or heard from Jackson since the night he left town. Danny even tries to pull a trace on Jackson's credit cards and bank accounts, but they all remain untouched. The GPS on his phone doesn't register, either.

Jackson’s a ghost.

Lydia stays at their apartment. Despite both men offering her their rooms, she chooses to take up residence on their couch. She spends the days watching movies on Stiles' computer while he and Danny are in class, and when both boys are home they sandwich her between them on the sofa and join in. Stiles doesn't even complain about being forced to watch The Hills-- or that his computer's been commandeered, for that matter. He's never really had the heart to deny Lydia anything, anyways.

After a month, Lydia is still at their apartment. She's taken over half of Stiles' closet and keeps the apartment tidy and clean while he and Danny are out at classes, and most nights she's got dinner waiting by the time they stumble through the front door. Admittedly, dinner is usually take-out of some sort since Lydia has a talent for burning water, but the point is _food._

She enrolls in classes at UM that Spring. Stiles and Danny never ask why she stays with them. However, they _do_ shoot down her plan to move into a dorm on campus when they catch Lydia looking at Housing forms, and they pretend not to notice Lydia's relief when they do. Together, the three of them go apartment hunting in December, and by the start of term they're settled into a new place.

Hunting with Lydia living with them is tricky, but Stiles and Danny still manage to go out on a couple of jobs a month. It's easier once Lydia has classes of her own to contend with. She still makes sure that Danny and Stiles eat actual food most nights, and she glares at them when a hunt gets them home too late for the food to still be hot.

Now, the problem with hunting and being human is that-- well, you're sort of breakable. Especially when your opponents usually possess supernatural abilities or sawed off shotguns. Getting hurt is sort of inevitable, a gamble against time at best, and it's no surprise that the day comes when Stiles gets freaking maimed on a hunt.

What _is_ surprising is just how far Danny flies off the rails when it happens.

The goblin-- which was apparently truer to Lord of the Rings than Harry Potter-- is left in literal shreds once Danny is done with him. If Stiles weren't so busy trying to keep pressure on the lacerations that are doing their best to separate his torso from his lower half, he'd probably hurl at the sight of the bits of goblin flesh hanging from Danny's claws when the other boy hurries to his side. As it is, Stiles is doing his best to keep his vision in focus long enough to be sure that no reinforcements are coming to avenge the fallen beast.

They don't wait around long enough to find out. Danny scoops Stiles up in his arms and sprints back to the waiting Jeep. He's moving fast enough that Stiles finally has to let his eyes fall closed or risk actually puking from the vertigo that’s making his head spin. By the time that he distantly registers the sound of his Jeep's door being wrenched open-- which, _hey_ , careful with the werewolf strength there, buddy-- Stiles has almost lost consciousness completely.

He must actually pass out shortly after, because he doesn't even remember the sound of the engine starting. The next time that he's even semi-aware of his surroundings, there's a steady beeping somewhere behind him and the irritated click of heels on laminate tile that tells him Lydia is nearby and pacing. Stiles swears that he can actually _feel_ Danny's presence in the room. He knows instinctively that the werewolf is nearby, probably slumped in an armchair and staring at Stiles like he believes the weight of his gaze alone will wake Stiles-- which it actually might have. He'll later jokingly attribute it to the sheer amount of angst and guilt that had been seeping off of Danny like a stench, but Stiles will also secretly begin researching all he can about human-werewolf bonds in search of an explanation.

When he completely wakes up later that same night, Stiles is in fact greeted with the sight of Danny and Lydia squeezed into an unfortunate-looking recliner in the corner of his hospital room. Lydia is curled sideways in Danny's lap, her head tipped against his shoulder and her eyes closed in sleep. Danny is wide awake though, his golden eyes fixed on Stiles as if he's been sitting vigil for hours.

Stiles doesn't doubt for a second that he _has_.

Their eyes meet across the room and Stiles can actually see something in Danny relax. Danny slowly nods in acknowledgment before carefully shifting Lydia more securely against him and letting his head tip back against the recliner cushion behind him. He's asleep within minutes.

Stiles finds himself watching over Danny and Lydia for the remainder of the night.

His aunt and uncle are there as soon as visiting hours begin. When his aunt asks him what he and Danny were thinking, camping out in the woods during bear season, Stiles roles with it. He makes up some bullshit excuse about a wildlife assignment for a photography class that he’s not even taking, and he’s proud his uncle actually resists the urge to roll his eyes. It takes some convincing after that for Stiles to dissuade the pair from dragging him back to their house to heal once he’s released, but Lydia and Danny suddenly amp up the charm and effectively quash any of his aunt’s protests.

Actually, it’s sort of hilarious to watch. Especially when Lydia hooks her arms through his aunt and uncle’s and leads them from the room, leaving the pair with no other choice but to throw flustered goodbyes over their shoulders as they’re pulled along. The sound of Lydia’s bright chatter and the sharp click of her heels gradually fade down the hallway, leaving Danny and Stiles to look at each other in bemusement.

When Stiles is finally released from the hospital three days later, Lydia only waits until he’s home and settled back on the couch before having at him.

“I can't believe you're both so _stupid_ \-- didn't you have enough of this life in Beacon Hills? If you wanted to run around and play superhero then you should have just gone back to Derek and his pack of screw-ups or-- hell, you could have joined _Argent_ if--”

She cuts herself short by slapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide with horror.

There's a growl building in Danny's chest that Stiles can hear even from across the room, but he doesn't let his gaze move from Lydia's, praying that the growl's still too low for her to actually notice. He feels his jaw tightening reflexively against _that name_ , but he stubbornly doesn't react otherwise. He doesn't dare say anything that might set Danny off so soon after the other man slipped into berserker mode on Stiles' behalf, definitely not until he's had a chance to do a little research, and so Stiles simply holds Lydia's gaze and lets the guilt paling her skin speak for itself.

She finally drops her hand and glances away, her jaw ticking as she clenches and unclenches her teeth looking for words. “I‘m sorry, that was out of line.” As if the apology flips a switch on her anger, she launches right back into her tirade, all semblances of remorse gone. “And furthermore-- did you _really_ think you two could hide your little extracurricular activities from me? Speaking of hiding things,” she flicks her gaze to Danny in irritation, “Do you mind laying off the growling, sweetie? It's not that intimidating when Derek does it, and it's certainly no more terrifying coming from you.”

Danny's growl cuts off in bewilderment.

Stiles' jaw might drop. Just a little bit.

“You-- you--”

“Know?” Lydia volunteers, voice saccharine. She actually bats her eyelashes at Stiles when she shifts her attention back to him. “Of course I do. If the monkshood growing on the patio trellis wasn't already a giveaway, _Artemis_ would have blown your cover.”

Stiles' eyes widened in horror.

Lydia arches an eyebrow. “You left me alone with your computer for hours at a time. Are you honestly surprised I found it?”

“Y-you were watching Netflix!”

“Yes, when you were _around_.” Lydia scoffs with a roll of her eyes.

Stiles doesn't have a response for that.

She purses her lips and moves to perch on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle Stiles for fear of irritating the stitches holding his insides in place. Stiles blinks when she reaches up and drags a hand through his hair, tilting his head back so he's forced to meet and hold her gaze.

“I didn't say anything because I was hoping you'd both tell me sooner or later. But then you go and get yourself _hurt_ ,” she tightens her hand in his hair at that, effectively making Stiles wince. “No more leaving me in the dark, alright? I'm not the same brat you knew in high school. I was part of Derek's pack for nearly three years-- I _get_ weird and supernatural, okay? I can _help_.”

Her gaze lifts to somewhere over Stiles' shoulder and he manages to tip his head back just enough that he catches sight of Danny moving to stand behind the couch, his gaze fixed on Lydia's in some sort of silent battle of wills. Then Danny lets out a heavy sigh and reaches out, taking the hand Lydia's holding out to him as some sort of olive branch.

Lydia's other hand slips from Stiles' hair to rest against the side of his neck. “I--” she looks between him and Danny, hesitating, before clearing her throat and forcing the words past the flush rising to her cheeks. “Just don't make me lose you guys, too.”

Ignoring the pain that flares in his middle, Stiles winds an arm around Lydia and drags her against his side in a too-tight hug. Danny leans over the couch and curls one arm around Lydia's shoulders in a clumsy half-hug. His other hand settles between Stiles' shoulder blades like a brand.

After that, Lydia helps pick the hunts. She rarely comes along, and when she does it's only to offer an extra pair of eyes to help with a tricky case. She does ask Stiles to start helping her train in hand-to-hand, though. Stiles never asks why, but the way that her eyes stray too-often to where his shirts cover the ugly scar left by the goblin's claws is telling enough.

Stiles and Danny graduate from the University of Michigan the following Fall. Stiles fell a semester behind thanks to the goblin attack, and so he and Danny wound up graduating together. Lydia's a semester behind them (like Danny, she tested out of most of her general req courses and was able to jump right into sophomore-level classes after she graduated from BHHS, though she lost a semester when she came chasing after Jackson). She's sitting in the second row of bleachers at the ceremony, cheering them both on like a proud parent.

No one from Hale pack shows up, but Stiles and Danny didn't send out invitations to any of them either. In a way, graduation is the final nail in the coffin of their old life back in Beacon Hills-- their past has no place in Ann Arbor just as surely as they no longer have a place waiting for them in Beacon Hills. Lydia takes Danny and Stiles to what has become their favorite haunt and does her best to drink them under the table. She succeeds in Stiles' case, but Danny remains unaffected thanks to his stupid werewolf metabolism.

Somewhere between Lydia and Danny throwing his arms over their shoulders to haul Stiles out to Danny's car and the trio falling into Stiles' bed in a heap, too tired to move to their separate beds, Stiles realizes that he doesn't need Beacon Hills anymore.

He's got a family and a life right there in Ann Arbor.

xxx

Stiles and Danny both apply to the Police Academy that spring, and they graduate from it within weeks of Lydia‘s graduation from UM. By then they're all ready to put Ann Arbor in their rear view, and so they pack up their modest apartment and make the move to Detroit. Danny and Stiles manage to score jobs in the same precinct while Lydia enrolls in online courses to pursue her MA in Biophysics. Because she's Lydia, she lands an acceptance to _Stanford_ , but no amount of pestering from Stiles and Danny can convince her they're willing to move to Palo Alto so she doesn't have to do the coursework online.

So that's how they spend the next two years in Detroit. Danny and Stiles work their asses off to pass the time they're stuck working as beat cops, and Lydia finishes out her master’s degree from Stanford. It's really no surprise that she's ranked in the top 5% of her class. When Stiles tries to tell her as much, she replies by telling Stiles that he and Danny had better start studying for their detective exams so that they can keep up.

They still go on hunts during their time in Detroit. In fact, they figure out a balancing act between their time on-duty and the time they devote to hunting. After another close encounter with a chimera in Wisconsin that leaves Stiles with a limp for the better part of a month, Lydia decides to take a more active role in their hunts and begins tagging along-- despite Danny and Stiles' protests on the matter. Alright, despite _Stiles'_ protests on the matter, because Danny's a jerk who's actually got the nerve to be _happy_ that Lydia's an extra pair of eyes to keep watch over Stiles.

Stiles really doesn't appreciate the implications. He doesn't need to be babysat, and he certainly won't have Lydia risking her neck for his sake.

The years of training with Stiles and Danny have served her well though, and Lydia proves to be a force to be reckoned with in no time. Stiles never stops worrying about Lydia getting hurt on a hunt, but eventually the instinct to shove her back into the Jeep and lock the doors subsides. A little. It never _truly_ goes away, but Stiles still worries over Danny every time the idiot steps out the front door, so he figures obsessive worrying may just be one of his quirks.

As time passes, the strange link with Danny that Stiles felt the night the goblin tore him open becomes a near-constant hum in the back of his mind. He never mentions it to Danny or Lydia, but he does research himself into a near-coma for weeks at a time trying to find an explanation. Then the night comes that some trigger-happy hunter riddles Danny so full of aconite bullets that Danny actually stops healing completely, and something snaps in Stiles.

One second he's watching Danny crumple as his body finally loses the battle against the wolfsbane seeping into his system, and the next the hunter across the clearing is falling to his knees and holding his head, screaming as blood begins to seep from his ears and drip down his nose. A darkness curls in the corners of Stiles' vision and he tilts his head, listening to the hunter's pleas for mercy without comprehending a word of it. It's the sound of Lydia screaming Stiles' name that pushes through the darkness, and the instant his concentration breaks, so does the spell that overcame the hunter.

Stiles searches Lydia out in the clearing and finds her kneeling next to Danny, her hands fisted tightly in Danny's shirt from where she's hauled him half into her lap. They're both staring at Stiles in something caught between horror and awe, and it's the fear he can see in Lydia's features that makes Stiles realize what just happened. What he just somehow _did_.

When he pukes he manages to miss his shoes, but it's a close call.

Once they're back in their apartment with Danny safely patched up and healing, Stiles reluctantly tells them both about the link, bond, _whatever_ he feels with Danny. The second that Lydia even begins to speak the word _mate_ Stiles cuts her off, assuring her that he's done enough research to confirm that whatever it is that's going on with him, it's not the result of any secret love harbored between him and Danny. Lydia's scowling at him for shooting down her theory, but she spends the rest of the night curled around her laptop and researching godknowswhat.

Danny's laying sprawled out on the couch, healed now but still pale as death. He catches Stiles' wrist when Stiles brings the other man a glass of water and some pain pills (he doesn't care if they don't actually do a thing for werewolves, they help Stiles' _sanity_ ), and Danny uses the hold to pull Stiles unceremoniously on top of his chest. Stiles sputters and tries to scramble off of him, too aware of how much the added weight must actually be hurting Danny, but Danny's grip is relentless. He locks his arms around Stiles' middle and holds him still with disgusting ease.

After another minute of futile struggling, Stiles finally lets himself slump onto Danny bonelessly. It's only then that he notices the minute tremors in Danny's arms and the uneven rise and fall of Danny's chest. When Stiles lifts his head to really _look_ at Danny, he finds the other man to be the closest to crying that Stiles has ever seen him-- and that's saying something, since Stiles witnessed the epic Antonio breakup first hand their junior year at UM.

Stiles doesn't think. He just reaches up and puts a hand on the side of Danny's neck, mimicking how he once witnessed Derek calming Isaac so many years ago. “You're fine, Danny,” he murmurs, trying to pitch his voice low enough that Lydia won't be able to decipher the words even from the close proximity of the nearby armchair. “I've got you.”

Danny snorts at that, but there's no missing how the tension begins to bleed away from his body after Stiles palms his neck. His arms tighten around Stiles briefly before one of them falls away-- but only for Danny to have a free hand to thump Stiles over the back of the head, apparently.

“Idiot. It's not me I'm worried about.”

Stiles blinks at him owlishly as Danny's eyes rake over his face as if searching for something. Stiles isn't sure what, but he doesn't think that Danny finds it.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Danny finally admits, the arm still around Stiles tightening instinctively. His eyes have been golden since they left the clearing (and the hunter's corpse, but Stiles is doing his best not to think about that part), and only now is Stiles beginning to see a bit of dark brown melting through.

Stiles lifts his hand from Danny's neck to thump the other man's temple in retaliation.

“Yeah? Well right back at ya, dude.”

He pretends not to hear Lydia's scoff from her place in their ratty armchair.

They hunt a Wendigo in the forests of Washington in April, and then Stiles and Danny get a transfer to a police department in Virginia so that they can mediate a boundary dispute between a pack and the local hunters there. Negotiations drag on longer than expected—because seriously, an entire _council_ of hunters? In one town? Recipe for disaster. By the time the trio has smoothed the last of the pack's ruffled fur, they’re ready to leave the crazy town behind and never look back.

Lydia buries herself in research the second they're through their own front door. That in itself isn't exactly unusual, but the determination furrowing her brow is a little out of character, as is the way she mumbles under her breath as she switches between sources. Stiles and Danny share a bewildered glance but unanimously decide to leave Lydia to her work. It's not that they're scared to know or anything (though yeah, sort of), it's more the fear of Lydia maiming them should they dare interrupt that keeps the men's thoughts to themselves.

It turns out that she recognized something in the Virginia pack's interactions, something similar to how Danny and Stiles interact, and that recognition sparked an idea in the strawberry blonde's brilliant head.

When she later brings her findings to Stiles, he can only gape at her and wonder if she'd been too careless when handling the monkshood that's been relocated to a window flower bed by their front door.

“You're his alpha,” Lydia declares, not a bit of uncertainty in her words, “I'll be frank-- I have no idea how it happened, but it's the only viable explanation **.** You could have triggered something when you killed the alpha that turned Danny. There‘s no record to be found of anything like this, so I can‘t be sure of the logistics.”

Stiles' mouth works, but words fail him. He's getting a little frustrated that he keeps being struck speechless anytime something big happens-- he can't shut up most days, but the instant he _needs_ his words, they up and bail on him. Typical.

When he finally finds his voice, he still doesn't exactly manage to form an intelligent sentence. But he does manage to squawk “ _I'm human_!”, as if that should be the only defense he needs to slap Lydia's theory down. Which it really sort of should.

Lydia doesn't agree. No surprise there.

“You managed to hemorrhage a man's brain with your mind, Stiles. I wouldn't be throwing around any labels just yet.”

And... well, the lady has a point.

He shakes his head in bemusement. “So-- do we need to find Danny a real pack? It can't be safe for him to be bound to a human. I mean, I can't _protect him_ like an alpha could! You've seen what Derek can do! I-- I can't even--”

“Luckily for you, I don't need you to protect me.”

Anything else Stiles is about to say is forgotten as he spins around to meet Danny's warily guarded stare. His eyes are glinting with golden flecks and his shoulders are drawn tight and tense, but his jaw's ticking in a way that means Danny's ready for a fight.

Lydia's eyes narrow in assessment as she scrutinizes Danny before raising her chin in understanding. “You've known.”

Danny tilts his head, considering a moment. “I've had my suspicions.”

 _That_ draws a response from Stiles. “Suspicions?” he repeats, spitting the word like an accusation.

Danny flinches. “I wasn't sure. I didn't want to say anything and you freak out or--”

“Freak out?” Stiles demands, apparently stuck on the whole repetition thing. “You _think_? I've only spent the last five years trying to find a reason for how we ended up-- whatever the hell it is we are!”

“And how was I supposed to know that? I thought it was all one-sided! You never mentioned anything until--”

“Oh, right,” Stiles scoffs humorlessly, “I was just going to throw something like that out over our morning coffee, right? “Oh, hey Danny-- by the way. I can sort of tell when you're around or when you're in trouble because there's this _buzzing_ in my brain--”

Danny and Lydia both still at that.

“The link goes that strongly both ways?” Lydia asks carefully, glancing meaningfully at Danny.

Danny looks like someone just clocked him in the head with a two-by-four.

If Stiles was physically capable of growling, he's sure that he would have just then. “ _What now_?” he demands shortly.

Lydia licks her lips before reluctantly shaking her head. “I-- nothing that I've found could explain that strong of a connection for a human, Stiles.”

Stiles throws his hands up in defeat. “Great. That's just-- that's awesome, Lydia. Thanks.”

He scrubs a hand over his face and paces away from the other two, pretending not to notice how his hands have begun to shake. Stiles, a _fucking alpha_? Seriously. Some deity up there must have one hell of a sense of humor. There's really no other explanation.

“How about you, Danny boy? Any insights you'd like to share with the rest of the class?”

Stiles knows he's just being cruel then and almost apologizes, but when he turns and catches sight of Danny's obvious hesitation, any guilt he's feeling takes a back seat to the renewed flare of irritation burning in his gut. “Oh my god. There _is_ more.”

Danny's jaw sets. “The thing with the hunter. And the mountain ash back in sophomore year,” he manages through tightly grit teeth.

Lydia's frown deepens impossibly. “What's this about mountain ash?”

Before Stiles can say anything, Danny beats him to it. “Deaton showed Stiles how to make a barrier out of mountain ash back when they were trying to hunt down—the kanima,” Danny fumbles his words when he catches himself almost saying Jackson's name, despite the fact that Lydia doesn't so much as bat an eye as understanding dawns. It's sort of an unspoken rule that they don't talk about Jackson in the house. Just like no one mentions Gerard or Stiles' dad. “When Stiles tried to show me back when we first started hunting-- I couldn't do it. At first I just thought I didn't have the ‘spark’ that Deaton waxed poetic about, but when I did a little research on it... there's only a handful of people who have ever been successful at sealing an ash barrier like Stiles can.”

“And like I told you five years ago-- that's total crap, Danny. Deaton could make the barrier. For all we know, _Mr. Harris_ could make the barrier. There's probably only a few documented cases because, well I don't know, most people don't exactly go around trying to contain werewolves, now do they?”

Lydia blinks slowly. “Deaton can't make an ash barrier.”

Stiles glances at her, pursing his lips. “Pardon?”

“We needed a way to contain J--” she clears her throat stubbornly, “to contain Jackson. And Deaton couldn't help us.”

“Wait, _what?”_ Stiles demands, turning to face Lydia fully and giving her a stupidly bewildered frown. “What do you mean Deaton couldn't help you? He's the one who fixed us up with the mountain ash the first time around!”

“Which is why we went to him,” Lydia snaps. She folds her arms over her chest and lifts her chin in silent challenge. “But he told us that-- and I quote-- because of _circumstances beyond his control, he could no longer be of help_ _to us._ ”

Stiles could only continue to gape at her in confusion. “I—but he--”

The sound of Danny's hand slapping down on the kitchen counter is enough to make Stiles and Lydia both jump in surprise, jerking their attention to the other man and finding his eyes glinting in triumph. Stiles can't help but think that his reaction is a little misplaced.

“That proves it,” Danny declares, too excited over his apparent epiphany to even care that he just cracked the granite counter top. “Deaton couldn't help contain Jackson because he didn't have access to Stiles anymore. He needed Stiles to seal the barrier!”

Stiles is _this_ close to asking Danny if he's been out sniffing the wolfsbane in the window when Lydia just decides to jump on board the crazy train.

“That could be it,” she breathes, her eyes widening in excitement. She turns and makes a beeline for her laptop, snagging it off the coffee table and pulling it open and into her lap as she sinks down onto the couch. “Derek once mentioned that Deaton was-- oh, what was the word that he used?” She chews on her lip for a moment as she begins to browse between open tabs on the Macbook. “--an adviser!”

She begins typing furiously, and Stiles can only watch helplessly as Danny hurries across the living room to sit next to Lydia and read over her shoulder.

“Perhaps there's more to what Deaton was saying,” Lydia muses. Suddenly, her head snaps up and her eyes lock with Danny's. “What if he wasn't even talking about advising Derek? What if--”

It's really unnerving when Lydia and Danny both turn to stare at Stiles in unison. It's even creepier that they both look sort of awed by whatever it is they're seeing.

And then Danny grins, and Stiles is so fucking _done_.

“He was talking about Stiles.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains brief gore and aftermath of extensive torture. Proceed with caution!

The next year is spent working out of a police station outside of Boston. It’s close enough to the city that the boys never have a dull moment, but small enough that Stiles and Danny can still sneak off and deal with supernatural business when the need arises-- and it arises. Often.

Lydia and Danny refuse to let the ‘Stiles is Magic’bone go. In fact, they worry and pick at it at every chance that they get. The most worrying part of it all? Well, Stiles isn't so sure that they're wrong. Especially when Lydia gets the idea to have him start trying to “practice” and, well. Not everything they try is a bust.

Actually, some of it sort of works.

Like the thing with the mountain ash-- Stiles apparently still has that good ol' spark. They use it to trap a shifter that's wreaking havoc down in Salem (yeah, go figure, right?), and Stiles has to admit that it's handy not having to chase the bastard all around town. Then Lydia gets it in her head that she needs to get her hands on every book _ever written_ on witchcraft and the occult, and she starts making Stiles try whatever charms, incantations, or wards she deems fit.

It turns out that Stiles is particularly skilled with runes and sigils. Protective wards are his strength. In fact, protective _anything_ is pretty much his expertise. He definitely can pull off an offensive spell or two, but defensive magic comes to him as easily as breathing. That’s how he comes up with a charm to disguise each of their scents so that no one will be the wiser about Danny’s lycanthropy-- not even other werewolves.

Still, even with Stiles’ newfound set of skills, hunting is never an easy ride.

They follow a flood of reports of black dog sightings to Louisiana, expecting to find a rogue preying on the locals. Instead, they find a demon at a crossroad. She makes impossible promises to bring his dad back, even to restore Stiles’ good grace with the pack in Beacon Hills. She’ll give him ten, long years with them before she returns to collect her payment. That’s practically a lifetime, right?

Just as her arms are curling around Stiles’ neck to seal the deal with a kiss, Danny appears and tears out her brain stem with his teeth.

Apparently, demons aren’t affected all that much by physical attacks. Not if one judges by the way the demon sends Danny flying away from her with a roll of her eyes and a swipe of her arm. Before Stiles can even react or Danny can find his feet, Lydia begins chanting something in Latin that has the demon throwing back her head and leaving her vessel in a haze of black smoke. She leaves the woman she was possessing crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood.

It’s their first encounter with a demon, and it’s enough to shake them all. Danny’s distant and quiet on the return drive, sitting in the back seat and staring out the side window blankly. Lydia is at the jeep’s wheel, but she hasn’t spoken a word to Stiles since the demon made its hasty retreat, even going so far as to ignore him when he demands to know what she did to spook the demon. In fact, she won’t even look at him.

Stiles has no choice but to slump down in his seat, stare at the dash, and try to keep his mind off the demon’s offer. He reaches up to grip his dad’s badge where it hangs on a chain around his neck. The familiar weight acts as a sort of anchor for Stiles, has since the day he slipped it on after leaving Beacon Hills. He focuses on the feel of the metal beneath his fingers, warm with his body heat, and traces the _Beacon Hills Sheriff Department_ engraving to keep his mind from wandering. Otherwise, Stiles might consider ditching Lydia and Danny as soon as they’re asleep and safe in some motel room, then taking the Jeep to the nearest crossroads to finish what he’d started with that demon.

He thinks Lydia must know what he’s thinking, because the Jeep shudders as she presses the accelerator just a little harder.

xxx

The problem with putting so many hunters in check is that some of the bastards are smart as hell, and most of them are experts at holding a grudge. It’s inevitable that one of them finally pieces together the logistics of Danny and Stiles’ rather unique dynamic. All it takes is Danny losing control in front of the wrong person during a mediation, only to settle under a sharp glance from Stiles, and word of a human alpha spreads within a matter of days.

Between rumors of his abilities spreading and this clever new moniker, Stiles quickly ends up with a sizable bounty placed on his head. Again, not exactly unexpected, but it does mean that they have to fly under the radar for a while. He and the others scale their hunting back a little, sticking to basic hauntings and monster hunts-- basically the sort of jobs that won’t leave many witnesses.

Maybe that’s why it’s such a shock when a total stranger recognizes Stiles in Nebraska.

The trio are stopped at a roadhouse run by a family of hunters (the decent kind of hunters, rare as they are) when they catch wind of a man known as the 'Collector'. Word has it that he's a veteran hunter who's gone off the grid in recent years, and he’s got a nasty habit of capturing alpha werewolves like they're trophies. The man was a hunting force to be reckoned with back in his younger days, but in his retirement he seems to be using his skills to turn alpha werewolves into his own pack of lap dogs.

When the bartender catches Danny eavesdropping on the group of hunters, she shoots him a look and smacks a fresh beer down in front of his face.

Danny blinks in surprise at being caught out. Even around hunters, the dude's an ace at keeping a low profile and blending in. Stiles feels his magic begin to instinctively rise and crackle beneath his skin.

The woman turns her sharp eyes on Stiles and gives him an unmistakable once-over of recognition. “You Deaton’s boy?”

Even Lydia gapes at that, the trio exchanging quick glances before salvaging their respective game faces and looking back at the bartender.

Stiles squints at the woman in open suspicion. “Sorry. Doesn’t really ring a bell,” he says, even though he knows his initial reaction has already given him away. “You must have the wrong guy.”

The bartender snorts, lips pursing in amusement. “Yeah, must have.” She reaches for a tumbler and a fifth of whiskey and pours herself a double shot. “But, if you _were_ Deaton’s boy, then I’d be duty bound to tell you to stay the hell off of that Collector’s trail. The last thing you kids want is to wind up on that monster’s radar.”

She downs the glass of whiskey without so much as a grimace.

“This… Deaton, was it?” Lydia begins carefully, hiding whatever she’s thinking behind a sharp smile, “How do you two know each other? I mean, you must be close if you’re keeping an eye out for this boy of his.”

Jesus. Stiles isn’t even looking at Lydia and he can tell how hard she’s working to maintain her poker face when she gets to that last part. The woman doesn’t even have to _laugh_ for Stiles to know she’s laughing at him, anymore.

The bartender’s expression tightens, but only slightly. “Now that’d be telling. But since you don’t know ‘im, I guess the story doesn’t matter all that much, does it?” She throws a sharp smile of her own at Lydia before moving to serve another customer. “Enjoy your drinks.”

Without a word, Danny pulls out his wallet and tosses a handful of bills on the bar. The group rises to leave as one. They don’t say a word until they’re within the safe confines of the jeep, and even then they wait until Stiles has started the engine and begun to pull away.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Lydia demands. She twists in her seat so that she can look between Danny and Stiles incredulously.

Stiles glances at Danny in the rear view mirror and finds the other man looking just as bewildered as Stiles feels.

A beat passes.

“ _Deaton’s boy_?!” Stiles finally blurts, flailing his arms in an attempt to physically convey the maximum level of incredulity possible.

Predictably, Danny and Lydia both dissolve into snickers.

Stiles dutifully sulks, slumping in his seat as he drives and pointedly cranking the radio louder to drown out his companions’ laughter. His mind’s going a mile a minute, trying to make sense of anything that just happened back at the roadhouse, but there’s really only one thing to be said about any of it.

“Fucking _Deaton_.”

xxx

Not a month after the strange encounter at the roadhouse, Stiles is just getting home from work when a knock sounds on his apartment door. Danny’s still on duty at the station, and Lydia’s in the shower, which only leaves Stiles to answer the freaking door.

He’s in the middle of shrugging out of his uniform shirt when he hears the knock, and Stiles bites back a string of colorful swearing as he glances around his room for a new shirt. He comes up empty, and the knocking only gets more persistent, so he gives up and goes to answer the door in a muscle shirt and his uniform pants.

“I’m _coming_ , Christ,” he grumbles, wrenching open the door without thinking to look through the peep hole first.

Stiles blinks owlishly at Deaton.

“I--you. What--? _Deaton_?”

The vet smiles blandly at him, glancing over Stiles’ shoulder before looking back at him. “Do you mind if I come inside? I’m afraid I’m on a rather tight schedule.”

“I-- uh, yeah. I guess. Come in.”

Stiles steps back and swings the door open, watching in bewilderment as Deaton strides purposefully over to his coffee table to set down a bulky satchel.

“Sure. Just make yourself at home,” Stiles mutters. “Why not?”

Deaton turns back to him abruptly.

“I don’t have time to go into detail, but Scott and the others need your help.”

Stiles stills. “Why? What’s going on?”

Deaton shakes his head distractedly as he pulls an intimidatingly large tome from his bag. “Like I said before, there’s no time.” He nods to the couch. “Take a seat, Mr. Stilinski.”

Lydia chooses that moment to resurface from her bedroom, coming out wrapped in a bathrobe and eyeing Deaton with clear suspicion. “Deaton? What are you--”

“Hello, Ms. Martin. I’m here on rather urgent business, so I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the pleasantries.” Before she can reply, Deaton continues. “If you’ll sit in that armchair, I’ll explain what I can.”

Stiles and Lydia look at each other skeptically, but Stiles finally gives her a tiny nod and moves to sit on the couch as instructed. After another moment’s hesitation, Lydia follows suit.

When Stiles eyes the tome now lying open in the center of his scuffed coffee table, he finds Deaton has turned to an entry on some sort of spell. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t get the chance to ask about it before the veterinarian (and really, what kind of cover is that?) launches into one of his cryptic spiels.

“A pack of alphas has been circling Beacon Hills for weeks now. Two nights ago, they made their move. They took Scott and Isaac as bait to lure Derek to them. It was an obvious trap. However, Derek wasn’t deterred, and so--”

“And so he walked straight into it.” Stiles finishes. He scrubs a hand over his face, scratching at his five o’clock shadow uneasily. “So what’s the score?”

“The alphas have Derek and the two betas. We only have until nightfall to intervene, or Scott and Isaac won’t make it through to morning.”

“What do they want?” Lydia asks tightly.

“That’s simple,” Deaton replies with a humorless smile. “They want Derek.”

Stiles feels his stomach drop to somewhere around his feet. “A pack of alphas,” he echoes carefully, “How does that even work?”

Deaton shakes his head. “That explanation isn’t so simple. We don’t have the time to get into the details.”

“So, what-- they want to kill Derek and take his pack?” Lydia ventures.

“Not at all,” Deaton spares her a quick glance, but his gaze shifts back to lock with Stiles’ as he continues, “they’re recruiting.”

Even having no idea exactly what horrors _that_ entails, Stiles is certain he can’t let it happen.

“Alright,” he says, holding Deaton’s gaze, “What do you want me to do?”

“We’re going to perform a spell that will give Derek the strength to overcome the alphas. It’s only temporary, but it should allow him the chance he needs to get himself and the others out of there.”

“And you couldn’t just do it yourself because…?”

Deaton smiles tightly. “It’s a very intricate spell. One that would be impossible to perform accurately if I were unassisted.” He pulls the book into his lap pointedly. “Due to the urgency of this matter, I didn’t have the time to reach out to any other contacts.”

Lydia quirks a brow. “So you just… jumped on a plane and flew to Boston, where you somehow not only knew where Stiles lived, but knew his _exact_ address?”

“It was a simple tracking spell, Ms. Martin. You can put the claws away.” Deaton seems to find something funny about his word choice, because his smile slips into something more genuine. “Forgive my choice in words.”

“Okay, enough. We’ll just--” Stiles shakes his head, “Let’s just do this spell already. Those alphas have Scott and the others now, right? So let’s stop wasting time with bullshit and get on with it. We’re on a deadline, aren’t we?”

Stiles will let it weird him out later that Deaton actually looks _proud_ at Stiles’ words.

“Why don’t you go ahead and lay down, then? Once I’ve completed the incantation, your mind will be linked with Derek’s. This will only allow us a small window of opportunity to get through to him, but it should give Derek enough time to free himself and his betas.” He trails off, his expression shuttering. “I must confess that it won’t be pleasant for you, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Explain,” Lydia commands, voice surprisingly icy. A quick glance in her direction tells Stiles that she’s on the edge of her seat, tensed as if she’s about to physically pin Deaton and force him to stop with the cryptic bullshit.

Stiles quickly speaks up. “Fine. So I might get a little tingly-- I’m sure I’ve had worse.” He swings his legs up on the couch so he can lay down before looking to Deaton for further instruction. He pointedly ignores Lydia’s huff of disbelief.

“Perhaps,” Deaton replies vaguely. It does absolutely _nothing_ to assuage Lydia’s mounting irritation with the man. “Ms. Martin, if you wouldn’t mind sticking around, I may require your help once Stiles is under.”

Stiles doesn’t even need to look to know that Lydia is glaring at Deaton.

“Oh, I won’t be going anywhere.”

“Wonderful. Now, shall we get started?”

Stiles punches out a sigh and stares at the ceiling. “Just tell me what to do.”

“For now, simply close your eyes and try to clear your thoughts. Your role will become clear soon enough.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous at all.

“Right. Clearing my mind, Yoda.”

He thinks he hears Deaton chuckle softly, but Stiles is trying to find his zen or whatever, so he pretends not to notice.

The room settles and quiets as the other two presumably give Stiles a chance to do his thing, and by the time Deaton begins speaking lowly in Latin, his voice seems distant.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s actually drifting off into a light sleep when the pain slams into him full-force.

xxx

He’s in a warehouse somewhere when he wakes up.

No, that’s not right. Even with the hellish training the Police Academy put him through, Stiles’ arms still aren’t anywhere near this massive, and his face itches like he’s gone days without shaving. Before he can wonder at this, pain suddenly slams into him, bright and full and sharp. It makes him arch and writhe under the weight of it, and he thinks that broken keening he’s hearing may be coming from him.

But no, that’s not right either.

The pain ebbs. He doesn’t move.

Or at least the biceps framing his vision don’t move. It’s like his arms are bound above his head or something, but they’re not _actually_ his arms. They’re just too thick with muscle, too tanned, too _bloody_. He’s got to be dreaming. Or having some sort of out of body experience, maybe.

The keening he heard before starts up again, and Stiles’ head snaps up so he can scan the room around him. His vision is strangely blurry, maybe with blood, but it clears after a few sharp blinks. It still takes a while for his eyes to truly focus. When they do, he spots Isaac bound to a nearby pillar, thick chains wrapped around him and holding him upright. His face is a mess, near unrecognizable, but even after seven years, Stiles would recognize those curls anywhere.

Isaac is missing a shirt and his jeans are in tatters, and it looks like someone decided to make a carving board out of his chest. Stiles thinks he’s healing, but it’s so hard to judge when he can’t make out anything under the thick smears of blood and bits of flesh dangling from the werewolf’s chest. Or what he can see of his chest-- the chains binding Isaac must be drenched in wolfsbane or something, because on closer inspection they actually seem to be digging deep into Isaac’s torso, maybe clear to the bones of his ribs. He’s covered in gruesome bite marks, and a chunk of his left bicep appears to actually be missing, the muscles visibly shredded through the torn skin that remains.

But Isaac’s not the one making the awful noises. No, that’s the body laid out on the steel table further back-- and Stiles realizes with a fresh wave of dread that the body can only be Scott. The more he strains to see, the more sick he feels, because as horrific as Isaac’s condition is, Scott’s is infinitely worse.

His hands and feet are bound to the steel table with thick manacles, the skin surrounding the restraints non-existent. Even from his distance, Stiles can make out the sharp white of the bones of Scott’s wrists, his ankles. But that’s like a paper cut compared to how Scott’s chest has been cracked wide open, the skin peeled back to reveal his rib cage. Judging by the white, bloodied bits of bone scattered about the table, his ribs were snapped out of his chest one at a time.

There’s so much blood, and Scott’s so fucking _pale_.

But he’s breathing. Somehow, the bastard’s still breathing. His mangled chest is rising ever so slightly in tiny, aborted breaths, but it’s something. It means that Scott’s still healing. It means he’s still _alive_.

The keening dissolves into a gurgling moan before silencing altogether. For one, terrifying moment, Stiles thinks that Scott’s injuries have won out, but the sound of Scott’s thready heartbeat still pounds in Stiles’ ears.

And that’s how he comes back around to the realization that he’s _not in his own body_.

Hand in hand with that revelation, pain suddenly plows into Stiles all over again, bringing him to his knees.

Except for how it doesn’t. He’s still just hanging there, motionless.

_Stiles?_

Stiles flinches at the sound of Lydia’s voice. She sounds frantic, terrified, and Stiles is suddenly desperate to get to her.

 _Stiles, just hang on._ Her voice is trembling. _Listen to me. You-- you need to get them out of there. You have to **get through to Derek**_ **.** _Deaton says the pain… it’s going to get worse once Derek’s in control. But you can handle it, right? S-so don’t wimp out on us now._

He shakes his head, trying to focus on Lydia’s voice, pushing through the fog of pain and confusion until he finally wraps his head back around what’s going on.

He remembers that Lydia’s not actually trapped somewhere in this hell hole with him, but back at their apartment in Boston. With Deaton. Deaton, who’s cast some sort of spell that’s apparently bound Stiles to Derek. So everything that he’s feeling, that he’s seeing-- it all belongs to Derek. This _pain_ is Derek’s.

_You have to hurry, Stiles._

Lydia doesn’t offer any helpful information on how Stiles is supposed to get through to Derek, though. Out of everything, he thinks that this would have been the most pertinent information to be ghost-whispering his way, but of course that’s not how his life works.

So he takes a shot in the dark.

 _“Derek_.”

Nothing. Fucking typical.

Stiles tries again, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain that’s rendering his mind into a dull haze. “ _Derek.”_

Nada.

He tries a third time, then a fourth and a fifth. The lack of results he gets is a little disheartening.

His-- no, Derek’s-- head lolls to the side. There’s a sickening crack between his--Derek’s, _their?_ \--shoulders, and Stiles whimpers under the new wave of agony.

Oh, so that’s what it feels like when one of your vertebrae supernaturally realigns.

Instead of shoving the pain aside like he’s been trying to do thus far, Stiles decides to go out on a limb and cling to it instead. As soon as he does, it’s like removing the first layer of gauze from a wound, his vision steadily clearing as each layer is unwound. He forces the pain to anchor him, and _Jesus_ , how much can Derek Hale fucking _take?_

If this is how much pain Derek’s in while he’s healing, then what Scott’s gone through is a goddamned cake walk. Stiles feels like he’s been cracked wide open and his insides are on his outside-- like he’s been shoved through a wood chipper, only to have his remains slapped haphazardly back together. That’s nothing compared to his back, though. Christ, Derek’s _back_. That crack between their shoulders must have been the first of his vertebrae repairing themselves, because Stiles guarantees that this is what a broken back feels like. Y’know, when someone’s removed your spine _piece by piece_.

The pain Stiles is taking in is unbearable, and it’s all he can do not to lose himself in it. With more guts than he thought himself capable of having, he grips onto the pain with everything he has and tries calling to Derek again.

_“Derek!”_

A surge of vertigo crashes into Stiles as Derek’s head snaps up, vision sharpening so much Stiles swears he’s seeing the world in HD now, and he actually feels it when Derek’s chest begins to vibrate with a growl.

He imagines sinking claws into every one of the sensations, dragging them to him and keeping them tight against his chest.

As soon as he does Derek’s body relaxes, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Wait. Is Stiles actually _taking_ Derek’s pain? Is that what’s going on here?

That’s actually sort of ingenious. If not really, really shitty news for Stiles.

“Stiles?” Derek asks aloud, continuing to look around the room in confusion. His gaze keeps flicking down to where the aconite-drenched chains are digging into his skin, and Stiles feels a hint of bewilderment hiding under all the layers of agonizing _agony_.

He clings to that, too.

 _“Fancy meeting you here,”_ he quips tightly.

Derek flinches again at the sound of Stiles’ voice. “How--how is this possible?” His voice is more breathless than Stiles remembers, and frankly it’s a little distracting.

 _“Don’t ask, dude. I’m just the voodoo doll.”_ He watches through Derek’s eyes as the alpha casts another look around the still-empty warehouse, feels it when his eyes catch on Isaac, then on Stiles. The resulting pain is a whole new rodeo, and it takes Stiles a moment to reign it in and find his grip. _“Look. We’re sort of on a deadline, so we’ll have to skip the reunion. Now alpha-up and get the three of you out of this hole.”_

Holy shit. He actually _feels_ Derek’s eyebrows doing that scowly-thing.

And because he’s Stiles, he can’t resist adding, _“Or would you rather we just, y’know, hang?”_

Derek growls again, this time in annoyance.

But then he starts testing his bindings. He gives the chains holding his wrists above him a careful tug, almost as if he’s expecting the action to renew the pain he’s obviously noticed is conspicuously absent. When that pain doesn’t return, Derek shatters his bindings, wrenching his wrists free with supernatural ease. The chain falls around him in pieces.

Derek glances at his wrists as he instinctively rubs them, his brow tightening when he sees how they’re still visibly raw and torn from the aconite chain, yet somehow are causing him no pain.

“What are you doing?” Derek hisses at Stiles, clearly beginning to catch on.

_“Doesn’t matter. Get moving!”_

Stiles feels Derek wrestling with himself-- guilt, confusion, anger, irritation, suspicion, gratefulness, disbelief, and then back around to guilt-- but then it’s like he just throws up a wall on his emotions, and Stiles can no longer feel any of it. Derek starts moving before Stiles can dwell on the loss.

Derek makes quick work of breaking Isaac from his bindings, and catches his beta when Isaac pitches forward after the chains release him. Impossibly, Isaac seems to pull strength simply from his alpha’s touch, because he manages to take his own weight only a few breaths later, his eyes visibly clearing.

“Derek. What’s--?”

Derek shakes his head. “Help me get Scott. They’re coming.”

Isaac’s eyes widen at that, and the terror Stiles sees in the man’s eyes sends a surge of rage through him-- one that doesn’t belong to Derek. But Isaac nods and limps with his alpha over to the table where Scott is bound, watching Derek from the corner of his eye with obvious disbelief. Stiles has no way of knowing how Derek looks right now (could probably go his entire life without knowing, actually), but Stiles is sure the man is obviously in no condition to be moving with such ease.

Stiles tries to shut his eyes before he can get a good look at Scott, at what’s _left_ of Scott.

He nearly sobs in relief when it works. Apparently this bond Deaton has forged between himself and Derek doesn’t actually allow Stiles to physically control the other man, and that small mercy is probably all that keeps Stiles from losing it when Derek and Isaac reach Scott. Because, seriously? _Hearing_ what happens next is so, so terrible on its own.

“Christ,” Isaac spits, his steps moving away from Derek as he must circle around the table.

Four sharp, metallic snaps echo through the concrete room. Derek must have broken Scott’s bindings-- Isaac wouldn’t be able to touch them due to the wolfsbane Stiles can smell on them through Derek‘s nose.

Isaac speaks again. “How do we even…?”

“Stiles, tune out if you can.”

Stiles whimpers, wishing he could do so more than anything. He’s not sure that Derek actually hears the sound he makes, but Derek speaks again as if he did, ignoring Isaac‘s bewildered response altogether.

“I’m sorry.” Then, to Isaac, “Help me fold his chest in. We need something to bind his torso-- if we jostle him too much, we could upset any number of organs, but this should at least keep them _inside_ of him.”

Now Isaac whimpers, but Stiles thinks he scrambles off to find something to tie Scott back together.

 _“Hurry_.” Derek snarls. Stiles realizes that the steady thumping in the back of his head isn’t someone’s heartbeat, but footsteps. “Isaac!”

“Here! Here, will this work?” Isaac sounds so desperate to help Derek that Stiles barely catches himself before he can open his eyes to look at the other man.

“It’ll have to.” Derek replies shortly. “Okay, help me.”

Stiles will never be able to forget the sounds that follow, all amplified by Derek’s supernatural hearing-- the squelching of skin being manipulated and shoved together, the slap of heavy blood falling on concrete, the horrible crack of splintering bone. And knowing through all of it that it’s _Scott_ beneath the gory soundtrack makes it so much worse.

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” a new voice suddenly purrs.

It’s enough to make Stiles risk opening his eyes, but Derek’s gaze is thankfully fixed on the speaker rather than on Scott.

A woman is standing in the open doorway, her arms folded over her chest and one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, so casual that it instantly sets Stiles on edge. It doesn’t help that he’s suddenly fucking _drowning_ in Derek’s rage as the other man glowers at the woman--presumably one of the alphas-- but the thrill of fear that Stiles finds buried beneath all that anger is what truly terrifies him. If _Derek_ is afraid of this chick, then Stiles wants a ticket on the next bus out of town.

Stat.

Derek’s body tenses as he hunches into a near-crouch, widening his shoulders as he begins to shift.

It’s the weirdest sensation that Stiles has ever felt, hands down. His cheeks itch as his facial hair thickens, his teeth ache as they lengthen into fangs. His fingers feel like they could be made of steel as they stiffen and his nails shift into claws. Standing on two feet feels almost unnatural, so it’s a relief when Derek lowers to all fours to suddenly bound across the warehouse, charging straight at the female alpha.

Oh _shit_.

Stiles has a split second to tighten the reigns on Derek’s pain before the two alphas slam into each other. Their bodies crash together with such strength that the resulting wave of sound shakes the murky windows high above them. After that everything is a blur of teeth and claws. Stiles can’t focus on any of it, too busy trying to absorb the pain of each blow, of every tear of teeth and claw.

_Come on, hang in there._

Lydia’s voice seems to filter through the warehouse windows, so distant and thin that Stiles isn’t sure he didn’t imagine it entirely, but he still tries to draw strength from it. He tries to think of Lydia and Danny, of their shitty apartment back in Boston-- the apartment he’s at right now, lying on his lumpy couch. Lydia’s voice is what reminds Stiles that, as real as this pain feels, it’s still only a spell. He won’t actually die from this.

Alright, so that’s pretty debatable, but whatever.

Derek’s actually found the upper hand in the fight, now. The female alpha’s strength is clearly waning, her frustration palpable as she finds that none of her attacks slow Derek, hardly even seem to faze him. All it takes is one too-slow move for Derek to find his opening, and Stiles learns first-hand what it feels like to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth.

Seriously, it’s nowhere near as satisfying as Derek always made it out to be.

It’s fucking _disgusting_.

Derek lets gravity take the alpha’s corpse to the ground. He takes a moment to look at his kill, to relish it, but then he snaps back into action. He’s across the room and pulling Scott into his arms with a speed that makes Stiles‘ head spin, and Derek casts a quick glance around the room before nodding to the windows above them.

“Do you think you can make it?” Derek asks Isaac, straining his hearing to calculate just how close the rest of the alpha pack is. Stiles can hear their quick steps like the crescendo of a drum.

Isaac throws a wry grin Derek’s way. “I guess I’ll have to.”

The beta leaps at the wall then, catching onto a thick pipe and leveraging himself higher.

Derek waits until Isaac has reached the windows above them before following, ever aware of the footsteps that are now just down the hallway.

Stiles takes the strain of Derek’s muscles as he pulls himself and Scott up the wall, allowing Derek to reach Isaac in two quick bounds. Isaac’s waiting on the other side of the window, standing on the building’s roof as he helps Derek maneuver Scott through the now-busted window.

Below them, the other alphas have finally caught up.

 _“Touch Isaac’s skin.”_ Stiles commands quickly, half his attention focused in the room below them.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t hesitate and simply grabs Isaac by his arm, shifting his hold on Scott accordingly. Either he can read Stiles’ thoughts now, or they’re just on the same page, because the veins in Derek’s arms blacken and Stiles sways under the extra flood of pure, white-hot pain.

Derek catches Isaac’s eye with his own. “Run.”

And they do.

Derek’s hand stays locked on Isaac’s arm as long as he can afford until he begins to risk losing his hold on Scott, and Stiles does everything he can to help Derek absorb Isaac’s pain. It must work, because when Derek lets go of Isaac to adjust his grip on Scott, Isaac’s pace doesn’t falter.

_Stiles, we’re pulling you! You need to get out of there!_

Stiles can’t even protest, he’s too overwhelmed by the agony of everything he’s taken on, but he still finds the strength to keep the burn out of Derek’s muscles as he runs. He keeps the strain from arms that should be useless after the werewolf hung from them for so long.

He’s not even sure what scent Derek catches on the wind, but the burst of joyous relief the man feels might be worth every ounce of pain that’s crushing Stiles. Derek and Isaac exchange a quick glance as they run, and Isaac laughs in delight as they both quickly change course, never once breaking stride.

That’s when Stiles spots a group of people standing on the edge of what has to be Beacon Hills’ territory. There are at least thirty of them gathered, and his heart clenches when he finds he can recognize some of the faces amongst their numbers, thanks to Derek’s sharper eyesight.

There’s a man that he doesn’t know standing in the center of the group, his bright red eyes making his status as an alpha apparent, but he clearly doesn’t belong to the pack chasing at Isaac and Derek’s heels. At least not if the way Erica and Boyd are standing on either of his sides is any indication. Allison and Jackson-- _Jackson!?_ \-- stand beside them. Chris Argent is there as well, wearing a Deputy uniform and holding a rifle that is certainly not police standard. Peter’s standing at his elbow. There are others that Stiles doesn’t recognize, but the bittersweet thrill he feels at seeing his old friends is dim in comparison to everything that Derek is feeling, and Stiles is buried beneath the overwhelming surge of _allies_ and _pack_ and _family_ and **_home_. **

Erica and the other alpha run forward to meet Derek and Isaac, Allison and Boyd hot on their heels. Allison’s sob when she catches sight of Scott feels like someone has driven a nail straight into Stiles’ heart, but then he feels the weight of the rest of the pack’s concern begin bearing down on him through Derek’s connection to them, and Stiles’ mind buckles beneath the strain.

Somewhere nearby, the snarls of the alpha pack are growing closer.

The last thing he sees before giving into the darkness pulling at him is Derek allowing Boyd to take Scott from his arms, and the other alpha gripping Derek’s forearm to hold him upright.

xxx

“ _Open your eyes, Stiles.”_

Stiles groans, turning away from the commanding voice. Or trying to, anyways. He doesn’t seem to have control over his body just yet.

“Stiles,” Deaton calls again, all but yelling now.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s never heard the dude even raise his voice before. Alone, that fact is concerning enough that he makes himself crack an eye open to appease the old vet.

He can’t even see Deaton though, because Lydia’s sitting on the floor beside Stiles, her body curled over his protectively. Her still-wet hair obscures most of his vision. He thinks she might have a phone cradled against her cheek with her free hand, which is quickly confirmed when Lydia breathes, “He’s awake, Danny. We got him back.”

Stiles groans loudly and immediately hates himself when the sound echoes in his pounding head. Still, he has to put voice to his dismay, so he carefully rasps, “You called _Danny_?”

“He’s already dreading the reaming you’re going to give him for this, so I think he’ll pull through,” Lydia relays wryly over the phone, but the tear tracks smeared over her cheeks give her away.

Before Stiles can try and find the strength to lift his hand and swipe at the phone, Deaton is nudging Lydia aside so he can see Stiles properly.

“Were you successful?”

Stiles’ throat clicks when he tries to swallow. It feels shredded, and he realizes with a bit of horror that he must have screamed his throat raw while he was out. Suddenly, Lydia’s clear distress makes unfortunate sense. “They’re back with the others.”

Speaking takes so much more energy than Stiles has left, but he’s determined to tell Deaton all he can before he passes out. “The alphas… followed them. But the--the pack. Derek’s pack was waiting.” He wets his lips, losing the battle to keep his eyes open and letting darkness settle back around him. “Another alpha, and Chris Argent. Others, too.”

He feels a hand on his hair, too big to be Lydia’s.

“Then you succeeded. You did an excellent job, Stiles.” Deaton’s voice gentles. “Now sleep.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

xxx 


End file.
